


Bye, Bye Miss American Pie

by CoffeeAndConjunctions



Series: A Relationship As Told By Meals [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, F/M, maybe more then a bro, working through death of loved one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6974014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndConjunctions/pseuds/CoffeeAndConjunctions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep even breaths sound in the line and it takes her a moment to realize it's her—heavy eyes try to blink away the sleep but she is finding it hard to focus, between the moonshine and Barnes' soothing tenor she's half way asleep.</p><p> </p><p>“Didn't know you liked poetry, Sarge.”</p><p> </p><p>“Frost had his moments, I'm a Whitman fan myself but Becca loves—loved, Frost.” he stumbles over the tense and it's heartbreaking to hear the jerk in his breath when he recalls his sister is no longer alive. “Want me to keep going?”</p><p> </p><p>“I'll fall asleep on you soon if you keep going.”</p><p> </p><p>“That's the plan, Ma'am.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bye, Bye Miss American Pie

vii. Bye, Bye Miss American Pie

_Legs swing to the gentle rise and fall of a Jo Stafford voice accentuated by a horn section—the music is turned down low in deference for the hour, her head is lying on her arms eyes following his movements the occasional sniffle still coming from her._

“ _Now you pinch the edges between your forefinger and thumb, make sure it'll stick to the pan or you'll have a lopsided pie.”_

_Instructions she's heard dozens of time over the years, he makes quick work of handling the delicate dough with a confidence she can't quite manage yet. Grandpa crafted food like some people painted—careful attention to detail and never afraid to try new combinations._

“ _Aren't you going to ask?”_

_Voice cracking a little mid sentence she breaks the last half hour of quiet they've shared in the early dawn._

“ _Not unless you wanna tell, don't see much point in pushing.”_

_Lapsing into silence again he digs through the pantry for a can of his apple pie filling—all made and stored like he'd learned from the ladies group when he was a kid following his mother around to peddle needle work, work of any kind she could get her hands on._

“ _Christopher Healy broke up with me.”_

“ _Ahh, any particular reason why?”_

“ _Cause Susan Peterson is a **slut** and let him feel up under her shirt.”_

“ _Don't let your Grandmother catch you saying that—she'll tan your hide, kid.”_

_He doesn't censure her, he never does—that's why she likes Grandpa John he doesn't treat her like an imbecile just cause she's thirteen. When he'd knocked on her door (no doubt having heard her cry)and seen red rimmed eyes he hadn't asked what was wrong, instead he'd led her to the kitchen and started rolling out pie do he had in the freezer (he always had pie dough handy, like he'd have a pie emergency at any moment). She was meant to stay the weekend with her sisters while her parent took a bit of time away._

“ _I told him I loved him—at the Spring Dance, he said he loved me too.”_

_Pie filled he cuts strips from the dough to criss-cross atop the pie then into the oven the whole thing goes. Wiping his hand on a towel he is standing next to her, finger tips smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg pat her hair back from her face._

“ _Ain't nothing a bit of pie can't fix—you'll have a bite and realize that Christopher Healy is an idiot, but for now if you wanna cry then cry. No one but you and me here.”_

“ _Pie for breakfast though, Grandma will scold you again.”_

“ _You let me handle Grandma, alright Darcy?”_

* * *

 

Charlie finds her on the rooftop of the farm house, her grandparents owned a modest sized orchard more for pleasure then business, picking her way carefully to the lip of the roof she sits with practiced ease beside Darcy. Grabbing the bottle from her Charlotte takes a healthy swig, “God, is that moonshine?”

She passes the bottle back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“From Grandpa's stash in the cellar,” accepting the bottle she drinks with an unhurried swallow “Remember when we drank the mulled wine in the pantry?”

“Jesus, we were drunk as skunks—Grandpa put us under the hose and sprayed us sober. What was I twelve?”

“Thirteen—I was ten, we were terrible but he never was one for punishment.”

“His disappointment face was punishment enough.”, snorting Charlie refuses the bottle offered up with a shake of her head.

“Funeral's early in the morning Dee, maybe you might wanna start slowing down—”

“Mhmm.” the small vocal response is followed by the capping of the bottle so Charlotte takes it as a good sign.

“Coming to bed?”

“Yeah.”

Charlotte puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder and squeezes before climbing back down into the house from the open window, Darcy follows a little less sure stepped but makes it into bed just fine. Laying back the burn of moonshine settles in her belly and she reaches for her phone and scrolls to Jane's number but it's late and no doubt she'd have just climbed into bed. Finger hovers over a different number before pressing call. It rings for a long time, nearly giving up she goes to hang up when the voice on the other end calls out a hesitant hello.

“Hey, it's me.”

“Darcy, it's 2 am—what's going on?”

“Can't sleep,” a little bit of a slur colors her words “S'too quite.”

“Been drinking, Lewis?”

“Yup.” the end of the word pops with an exaggerated air.

“Shears isn't with you?”

“Nope, perimeter check or something.”

Pulling the covers over her still fully clothed body (she's too tired to change out of the jeans she'd arrived in yesterday) Darcy lets her body sink into the mattress. Propping the phone on the pillow against her ear she lets her hands fold over her stomach, glassy eyes starring at the ceiling.

“You sleep at all yet?”

“No. In bed now though.”

“Hang on.”

Hearing him put the phone down there are muffle sounds coming from the other end and she tries to picture where he is—his voice had a hit of sleepiness to it, so maybe his bedroom? She wondered about it sometimes, would it be spartan and bare or an outlet for his tactile nature with textured rugs and bold colors (a sanctuary).

“Lewis? Still there.”

She hums back a reply.

“Rebecca used to have trouble sleeping—my sister. So I—uhmmm—I used to read to her. Can do that for you if you want.”

“Read to me?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“Alright.”

Pages shuffle loud enough and Darcy finds it cute he has an actual, honest to god book (and reminds herself he is actually from the 1940's so it shouldn't be weird). He doesn't clear his throat or make any unnecessary noise—he was always economic with sound as if he wasn't quite used to being able to speak freely.

“ _When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud_

_And goes down burning into the gulf below,_

_No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud”_

 

Steady and strong his voice lilts over the words in a familiar rhythm—it's clearly not his first time reading it. At the beginning of each sentence it almost seems like he is sighing into the words—adding a melancholy inflection to them.

 

“ _At what has happened._

_Birds, at least must know_

_It is the change to darkness in the sky._

 

_Murmuring something quiet in her breast,_

_One bird begins to close a faded eye;_

_Or overtaken too far from his nest,”_

 

Not having him physically here is strange, she hadn't noticed how much of her free time was spent with Bucky until she was several states away in a home from her childhood with Agent Shears to guard her since it wasn't like she could bring an actual Avenger along for a protection detail though they had nearly all offered (of course Bruce hadn't but it was more a couldn't then wouldn't case with him).

 

“ _Hurrying low above the grove, some waif_

_Swoops just in time to his remembered tree._

_At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe!_

 

_Now let the night be dark for all of me._

_Let the night bee too dark for me to see_

 

_Into the future._

_Let what will be, be.”_

 

Deep even breaths sound in the line and it takes her a moment to realize it's her—heavy eyes try to blink away the sleep but she is finding it hard to focus, between the moonshine and Barnes' soothing tenor she's half way asleep.

 

“Didn't know you liked poetry, Sarge.”

 

“Frost had his moments, I'm a Whitman fan myself but Becca loves—loved, Frost.” he stumbles over the tense and it's heartbreaking to hear the jerk in his breath when he recalls his sister is no longer alive. “Want me to keep going?

 

“I'll fall asleep on you soon if you keep going.”

 

“That's the _plan,_ Ma'am.”

* * *

 

Agent Shears drops her off in front of the Tower a week later, once she's in the lobby, carry on slugged over her shoulder, she sees Barnes who is presumable waiting for her—baseball capped and decked out in a pair of jeans and a flannel—he grabs her duffle bag without a word and shrugs it on. She knows there are dark smudges under her puffy eyes that even the dark frame of her glasses can't hide. Without a word they make their way to the elevator.

 

It comes quick as most things in the Tower seem to function beyond well, pressing the button for a floor he isn't prepared for her to invade his space.

 

(It was stupid to take chances like this—especially because if he ever did hurt her she was sure it would be the end of whatever _this_ was, no matte how unintentional it might have been.)

 

Burying her face against the soft material of his shirt she breathes in the smell that is all Bucky (leather, gunpowder and clean soap), looping his arms around her he brings her deeper into his embrace—she's feels so small surrounded by his heat, feels safe (feels like she did when he'd busted her out of that room, safe and relieved to see him). This isn't the time for words and this is coming from her, the woman unable to keep her mouth shut even under threat of bodily harm. She just wants this moment not to end and speaking seems like it would break this closeness between them.

 

He seems to understand.

 

He always does.

 

A hand at the small of her back leads her out of the elevator, it doesn't move away when she exits just remains a light, constant pressure. The kitchen is empty, not uncommon for this time of day but there are signs the others have been there recently; drying bowls and the scent of something sweet in the air. Guiding her to a chair he lets her bag drop lightly to the ground by her feet.

 

Methodically he places napkins, fork and a glass of milk in front of her and adds a place setting to her right—from beneath a white cloth at the counter he retrieves a pie—it's golden crust is imperfect suggesting it was of the homemade variety. Looking from the pie to him, the careful way he carves out a piece (so aware of his strength and exercising such control) at odds with the footage of the brutal man she'd seen take on Captain America on a random highway.

 

Placing a still warm piece in front of her he takes the seat to her right as is customary and works on getting his own piece.

 

“Bucky?”

 

“Maria got the recipe from that dinner you like—Tasha and Jane grab the apples at a farmers market, cause you always say organic ones are best. Steve did the majority of the work so it should be decent. The others were away but send their thoughts.”

 

“But, why?”

 

“Ain't nothing pie can't fix right?”

 

(He remembered.)

 

“And you, what did you do?”

 

“Worried, mostly. Waited for you to come home.”

 

Giving him a watery smile she forks out a piece of pie, it's apple, of course it's apple(she can smell the nutmeg and the cinnamon). It's not a perfect pie—someone had gone too heavy handed on the lemon juice and the crust was a little over cooked—but she thought of the Team gathering to make her this pie. Thought of how far outside of Bucky's comfort zone this must have been, of the progress that showed. Wiping away a tear with the back of her hand she digs in with gusto.

 

She tells him stories about Grandpa John and summer's spent at the orchard. Words keep tumbling out long after the first slice is gone and well into the second one. Bucky never interrupts, occasionally he asks questions to spur on more details, never looks bored—just sits with her eating along with her.

 

Her heart still weight heavy in her breast, and would for a long time but it would get better.

 

She was home now and there was _nothing_ pie couldn't fix.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of you shared my feelings on last chapter--just when we thought they would get with the smooches. Well, here is a new update, hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy putting it out for all you lovelies! As always thank you for the kudos and comments you leave, they make my day.


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